


incapability

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cock Cages, Dream Sex, Episode: s12e14 The Raid, M/M, Mind Control, Mistaken Identity, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 04:12:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16422173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Trying to follow orders from home, Ketch goes to see Dean, hoping to find a way to convince the Winchester brothers to join the cause. His first attempt goes differently than he expects.





	incapability

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'Cock Cages' square.

Arthur lets the bike coast to a halt, bracing a boot in the dirt for balance. The place is impressive, in a brutish sort of way, he can admit that. Americans do like to build _large_. It's no wonder. The sheer size of this bloody country. At least all those endless leagues of motorway lack any kind of supervision; officially he ought probably to tut, but opening up the Triumph and roaring free has been the biggest pleasure of spending so long on this side of the pond. The American hunters, on the other hand—

He leaves his helmet on the seat and pops down the kickstand. Precisely no one is around to steal it, not that they'd be able to without their metacarpal bones shattering. Two packages, carefully stowed, one smaller than the other. This may work, or it may not. At least Arthur can report that he tried; while Mick, the fool, is attempting some feeble show of intelligence to woo Winchester the younger, Arthur shall be slicing his way rather more directly toward the elder. He's always favored pincer attacks, when possible.

The door creaks ridiculously when opened and there, Dean. Jacketed, lean, handsome. Not as stupid as he looks, nor as stupid as Mick clearly thinks he is. "How'd you find us?" he says, and Arthur can smile for that. Not stupid, but not informed. Almost charming, really. Of course, Dean doesn't wish to give him the time of day, and Arthur doesn't blame him, but he has done his research, and he knows the type:

"While I understand," he says, not trying to hide the hard glint in his eye, "that you're not feeling warmly disposed to me, I wonder, what's your disposition to this incredibly rare, unspeakably expensive bottle of barrel-proof scotch?"

He proffers it; Dean's eyes narrow, and flick up, studying him. This is the thing Mick never has understood. Too much studying. Dean's jaw ticks, but Arthur isn't dissembling because he knows what sort of man Dean Winchester is. There is absolutely no reason to lie. Dean might play poker, might play chess, but that's not his game—he's a billiards man, working the angles, and he looks into Arthur's face and says, "Fine, one glass," and turns on his heel to let Arthur get the door. He smiles, to himself, and closes it behind him. The simplest shot in the game is the break. Everything after that requires a man to think on his feet. Happily, this is what Arthur's best at.

The Americans did lovely work, so long ago. Dean fairly stomps down the metal stairs and Arthur takes the moment to admire the surrounds. Stone, golden light. Not the estates of his superiors, nor the rich London townhouses or flats given to high-level operatives such as himself, but there is a certain hard-jawed coldness to this that he likes.

It fits Dean, too. He pulls off his jacket, tosses it casually over the charmingly antique and breathtakingly valuable command console, running a hand over the back of his neck. Arthur follows, quieter, and Dean says, "So, wasting good Scotch on a dumb hunter, you must really want something," and on silent feet Arthur steps close up behind him and hits him in the exposed pale golden skin at the side of his throat with the syringe and depresses it in a single movement. Dean chokes, turns in an instant with a swinging fist, but Arthur's already stepping back and it catches him in the shoulder, not the haymaker to the jaw it could've been—and good lord it does hurt, but the solution is so fast-acting Dean doesn't manage another swing. He grabs at Arthur's motorcycle jacket, hauls him in, but already his eyes are going glassy, his grip getting weak.

"There, now," Arthur says, not unsympathetically. He leans over and places the bottle on the map table and catches Dean's elbow with the other, helping hold up his weight. "Don't worry, mate, you won't remember a thing."

"What did—what," Dean mumbles, pointlessly, and Arthur tuts. He walks Dean backward, setting him in the chair at the end of the table, and Dean's hand still is remarkably tight on his jacket for the strength of the spell diving deep into his veins. "Limey bastard," Dean gasps, his eyes falling shut.

"Yes, yes." Arthur pulls the zip-ties out of his pocket and secures Dean's wrists to the chair, tips his chin up and checks his pulse. Slowing, but steady. Perfect. He presses Dean's knees out and they fall open naturally, his head dropping back on his shoulders. Arthur arranges him a little more neatly in the chair. Wouldn't do to have him wake with an unexplained ache, once Arthur's ready for him to wake. He touches Dean's pulse again, counting in his head, and when he's at a nice and even thirty beats per minute Arthur leans down and whispers the words into his ear: Gaulish, the unfamiliar consonants husky in his throat, coaxing him to dream. It's the work of a moment to flip out his handy silver pocketknife and pierce his third finger, and Dean's mouth is slack enough that slipping the blood over his palate is no trouble at all. Warm soft heat, slick against his skin, and he strokes Dean's throat softly until he swallows, and then—well, that's that, then. Time to find some things out.

Much as he and Lady Bevell detest each other, he can't deny that some of her more repulsive methods do have their uses. Those old days, just after their graduation from Kendricks, he'd let her try all sorts of spells on him, the foolhardy danger of it thrumming through him to the teeth. It hadn't been romance, though he found out too late that Toni might have had other ideas; that fight had nearly leveled one of their great libraries, and since then, he's taken considerable precautions against dangerous blondes. This particular spell still has its uses for insidious, quick interrogation—no need to break down a prisoner's mind when one can slip into it from the inside, after all—but he's always thought Toni's particular engagement was almost egregiously narcissistic. When he bothers, he prefers to go in undercover.

He pours himself a few fingers of the scotch and settles down in the chair next to Dean's, letting the peat-sugar-sherry aroma waft gently from the cut-crystal glass. Dean's eyes are starting to shift, gentle, under his eyelids. He is lovely, in his way. Without that brutish harsh expression there's a curious mix of delicate and bold to his features. The nose, the jaw, the cheekbones. The mouth, which has so certainly invited comment. Arthur sips at the scotch and rolls the flavor across his palate, picking up the notes of smoke and honey, and then he rolls the few inches closer, his knees pressed to the inside of Dean's, and puts his pricked fingers to Dean's slow thudding heart, and closes his eyes, and sees:

a bedroom, a bed, a lamp lit but the room's still dark, and there, Dean, pulling off a blue flannel shirt, a black cotton undershirt below it. _What_ , he says, almost surly, and the dream shifts, and instead of the concrete-and-cold of the bunker it's—a hotel, or perhaps a motel, cheap carpet underfoot and two queen beds, bags and guns piled on one and Dean sitting on the edge of the other. _What_ , Dean says, again, looking up, and Arthur says with a voice he doesn't yet know, _I just wish you'd talk to me about it, that's all_.

Dean rolls his eyes, shakes his head. _When don't you want me to talk, Dr. Phil?_ He takes a sip off the beer that appears when his hand reaches for it, and licks his lips slow, and looks up at Arthur, and his mouth quirks.

Even inside his head he's aware of the effect it must have—and Arthur's dream-body responds, immediately, as though to a spoken demand. _Come on,_ he tries, testing out this voice. Impossible to hear, from the inside. _The Brits must have something you want. Power, tools, intel. Hunting with more resources is always better than the alternative._

Dean sighs, and then reaches back and pulls off his shirt, over his head. Soft pale gold skin, a cut-rate Key of Solomon tattooed on his chest, and a curious amulet dangling over his sternum that makes Arthur's new stomach thrill and his heart clutch close, all at the same time. Interesting reaction; he files it away. _What do I have to do to change the subject here, man?_ Dean says, and—ah. A man, curious. Arthur steps closer, reaches out, presses unfamiliar fingers to Dean's jaw, rubbing along stubble he can see but not quite feel through the dream's vague assembly. Dean smiles, triumphant, reels him closer so he's standing between spread knees, and then Dean presses a kiss forward against the bulge where Arthur's, ah, borrowed cock presses out the front of his jeans. _Mm_ , Dean mumbles, peeking up. _Guess the subject's changed, huh, Sammy?_

Arthur blinks—in the dream, in life, and the bunker's map room reels around him, superimposed crazily for a moment over the top of the generic motel where Dean's smug and smiling up, his hand creeping up bare flat stomach. The strangest prickle of awareness takes his shoulders, races up the back of his neck to set his hair on end, and he sets his fingers on Dean's shoulder, squeezes. Dean's eyelids dip, and he says again, _Sam_ , and there's no mistaking it, no denying the _known_ jolt that races from his hindbrain down to his own cock. Toni's report hadn't said anything about this, and she'd been obsessive, tracking down every single detail available about the Winchester brothers. How was it possible to miss something this huge?

His fingers curve up Dean's neck, slide through the short hair at the back of his skull. _Look at you_ , he says, in Sam's voice, and the echoed shock must push through because Dean blinks at him and then his ears go charmingly pink, he darts his eyes away, and Arthur lets the dream push forward, pulling in a deep breath as he—as Sam—bears Dean down to the bed, the cheap mattress dipping under their weight, Dean looking up into their eyes a little startled, a little soft. He slips his hands up into their hair, tugs down, and his mouth is—

Arthur has to close his eyes, has to turn away from the enormity of it, the weight crushing in. He drops a hand to his lap, breathes carefully in the soothing pattern he's known for a lifetime. In half his mind he can see Dean rolling his dream-Sam over, grinning and delighted, and the half-felt sensation of his lips dragging down their chest sparks along Arthur's own nerves. It should be disgust, it should be revulsion, disdain. These two who had so often been implicated in the near-destruction of the world, and they smile into each other's skin while committing incestuous buggery—but with the truth cracked open in Dean, poured through his dreaming mind by the spell straight into Arthur's chest, it doesn't feel wrong. It doesn't feel wrong.

Dean slips open Sam's belt, tugs at his jeans, his shoulders broad and golden in the lamplight. The room shifts in that dream-solid way and it's a narrow bed, now, a rundown cabin, smell of dust and woodsmoke, and Dean murmurs _hold on_ and Sam's voice undirected by Arthur says _talking a big game, dude_ with nothing but affection underneath it, and Dean quirks his mouth and then goes down, mouthing wetly at the crown of his brother's cock, a lance piercing through the dream straight into Arthur's gut, and he curls forward in his chair, his left hand clamped over his crotch.

He can't—physically, he can't. Dr. Hess gave it to him, personally. After the incident with Toni he'd agreed, it was for the best, and over the years of steady and perfect service he'd earned the right to hold his own key and it wasn't a problem. When he's on a mission he locks himself down—it's a ritual, as much as cleaning and loading his guns and selecting the correct knives can be. So it was this morning, fresh from the shower, and he stood before the mirror and locked himself in. Custom made to his measurements, perfect steel a looped cage around his cock, his scrotum. All the body's ridiculous demands redirected into focus. The mission, duty. It's all that matters.

In the dream Dean slips that heaven of a mouth down as far as he can, tonguing and sucking and slurping back up to smile, his lips bumping the cut crown. _Still want to talk?_ he says, innocent, and Sam's voice says _you're an idiot_ and Dean grins and crawls up his body, hot weight settling onto Sam's chest—their chest—and Arthur puts a hand on the back of his head and brings him in, kisses him wide and open, knocks those ridiculous lips open and sucks the taste off of Dean's tongue. Gets a moan for it, gets those hands into his hair again for it, gets wild hot pressure and Dean's cock pressed familiar against his own—and his real cock aches, pressing futile against the confines of the cage, trapped. This wasn't meant to happen. This wasn't meant—

He watches, one foot in and one foot out, the two of them pressed together, their cocks rigid and bumping wantingly. Dean's mostly smooth, just a sparse trimmed thatch of surprising ginger, and he scrapes his nails through Sam's thicker hair, thumbing over his nipples, arching and sweating and known, beloved. The knowing of them, it goes both ways. Dean puts his lips to Sam's tattoo and Sam's fingers wrap aching around the ugly god-head on that amulet, and the raw craving that rips through Arthur makes him, finally—he tears open his pants, leaning back in his chair, and the metal's warm through but there's still spaces where he can touch his own hotter flesh, and he—he won't take it off, he won't, but he tucks his thumb in between the bars and closes his eyes, throbs, Dean laughing nonsensically in the back of his head, Sam biting affectionately at his throat, at his ear, and Dean says _vampire_ with his heart in his voice, and Sam whispers, close and smiling _you love it, jerk,_ and when Sam comes Arthur almost doubles over, his cock spurting even trapped-soft as it is, his balls tight and his stomach lurching, and in the dream he looks up with Sam's eyes and wraps his hand around Dean's cock and strips him, fast, gorgeous, and in life he holds one hand tight against where he drips with his own mess and leans forward and kisses Dean's real slack mouth, licking in where he still tastes of blood, and in their shared head Dean curves up into Sam's body and kisses back, groaning loud and crude and then he shoots all over Arthur's hand, gasping, eyes squeezed tight, giving everything up because here he's safe, because they're cracked-open to each other, because they… Dean's eyes open, slow, and they look immediately up into Arthur's, and Arthur spreads his hand on his cheek and then Dean frowns, pulls back, says _wait—_

Arthur jerks back. Dean's still out, but his eyes are moving under the lids. His lips are wet, flushed, and Arthur stands up and turns around, quick. What in the bloody _shitting_ Christ is he doing. He snaps the handkerchief out of his inside pocket, wipes his hand, his crotch. His cock, _stupid_ thing, sits flushed and sticky and still wanting inside his cage, and he smears it clean with the handkerchief and zips up, quick, shoving the incriminating ball into his pocket.

Dean's still out, thank god. Dr. Hess's voice echoes through his head. _Mr. Ketch_ , so disappointed, and punishment waiting. Arthur presses a knuckle hard into the always-ready bruise on his chest, brutally enough that the pain rocks back straight to the pit of his throat, and swallows. He neatens up the glass of scotch, tucks the bottle back into its beautiful case. He should've known. This sort of questioning always was Lady Bevell's specialty.

When he turns around, the line of Dean's cock is clear in his jeans, but he's otherwise unsullied. Ketch pulls the second syringe out of his pocket and murmurs the spell over it, and he's delicate as he slips it into the high crook of Dean's forearm. Wouldn't do to leave too many marks, after all. He folds the sleeve neatly back into place, slips the syringe back out of sight. Soon, Dean will be dreamily malleable enough to lead back to the start of this little misadventure, ready to answer the door again for a new visitor with a new proposition. A nice bit of killing together—that'll be more the ticket. Ketch shouldn't try to be creative. It's not his forte.

While he waits for the new drug to work its way with the spellwork into Dean's veins, he neatens his shirt, wipes his lips dry. He slides his fingers down his throat again, just once. No amulet around his neck, and Ketch wonders where it came from. What happened to it. A strange echo of loss pulls through his stomach, and he snatches his fingers away, and shoves his fingers back into his bruise again. _Please leave this sort of thing to the experts, Mr. Ketch_ , Dr. Hess had said. _What talent you have lies elsewhere._ He squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, and turns a deliberately dispassionate eye on Dean. Better, as always, to do what he knows.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/179468466029/incapability)


End file.
